Across the Mystic Shore

By Suroopa Mukherjee

The arrival of the young boy in an upper middle class Bengali household triggers a gripping story of love, desire and renunciation. Set in two different cities, New Delhi and Varanasi, Across The Mystic Shore explores the entwining lives of four women forced to confront their past decisions in order to understand their present delusions and insecurities.

Questions arise throughout the story and family truths are unveiled. Central to the story is a dark and shocking secret that manifests itself and demands expiation from those entangled in it, having lurked in the past for twenty years. The narratives and memories of the four women enable the characters to grow over a period of twenty years, exploring the link between childhood and growing up and the theme of motherhood.

Written with humour and compassion, Across The Mystic Shore is full of the sights, sounds and scents of India and delivers both an exploration of conflicts peculiar to Indian society and a universal underlying message about the strength of love and how it can be both selfish and selfless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pan Macmillan
• Release date: Oct 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780230760790

Suroopa Mukherjee

Suroopa Mukherjee is the author of several books for children and young people. She teaches English Literature at Delhi University and is the co-ordinator of a student group dedicated to creating youth awareness on issues related to environmental damage and corporate crime. Across The Mystic Shore is her debut novel for adults.

Book preview

Glossary

Avimukta, the Never Forsaken

CHAPTER ONE

The Arrival

The boy arrived on a Sunday morning in the midst of a great deal of din and clamour. As the rickshaw skidded into the broad-avenued lane in front of the Sengupta residence, something truly extraordinary happened. Its front wheel hit the road divider, and sent the two occupants flying in the air. They landed on a pile of mud that the municipality had dug up in order to lay the telephone cables.

Thank God for small mercies, said Abhishek, long after the boy had taken a bath and had his breakfast, imagine what would have happened if he had fallen headlong on the pavement.

Mira suppressed a giggle, trying to ignore her mother’s frowning glance. Just then the calling-bell rang and the neighbours trooped in, led by the indefatigable Mrs. Chopra. Her double-layered chin was hobbling with excitement, and her eyes were round like two large-sized saucers. Her breath was coming in little gasps.

Dear me, Vandana, dear me. What a calamity! Is the boy hurt? she hissed in a high-pitched tone.

No, not really, Mrs. Sengupta replied in a distraught voice. She did not want the boy to be frightened by the presence of this woman. Abhishek gave Mrs. Chopra a knowing look, and propelled her into a tiny covered verandah. Wait here, he said in a whisper, I have something to tell you.

Mrs. Chopra felt a thrill course through her veins. She had been lucky today morning. Just when the little accident had taken place, she had pushed her head out of the window and seen the whole thing with her own eyes! Who is the boy, Abhi? A poor relative? I know how philanthropic your parents are, she said dramatically.

Oh, no! Abhishek replied, ready to torture the woman by suppressing information. No one really!

No one? How is that possible? Mrs. Chopra shrieked. And Abhi, why does he look so odd?

From the corner of his eyes Abhishek could see the boy sitting solemnly on a large sofa, surrounded by a gaggle of ladies. He looked tiny and helpless. He had beads of perspiration on his forehead, which he kept wiping with the back of his hand, leaving bright red traces on the delicate skin. His eyes, large and liquid, were serious beyond his age. Even when Mrs. Sengupta had extricated him from under the pile of luggage scattered on the roadside, and dusted his mud-covered body while making a clucking, sympathetic sound with her tongue, the boy had not cried or let out so much as a whimper. It had made her heart reach out to him. Poor, dear child, not a day older than her own Mira, and already separated from the only family he had ever known!

She had rushed out to the pavement her slippers flying, the early morning newspaper fluttering in the breeze, the reading glasses sliding down to the tip of her nose. As she bent down to pick up the boy, she stopped for a fraction of a second. He looked so ridiculous with his tiny frame covered with mud. And then she noticed how the large, spoked wheel of the cycle rickshaw was moving with a slow, clanking, dizzy movement close to the boy’s head, and it made her cry out in sheer panic. The head was round, clean shaven except for a little tuft of black hair that was tied in a neat plait at the base of his skull.

Dr. Sengupta, who was sitting in his chamber working out the medicines he would prescribe to his patients, had rushed out as well. The boy was unhurt and so was his companion, the man who was accompanying him from the ashram. After the doctor had yelled at the rickshawallah for his carelessness, he asked his wife to take the boy in, for they were drawing too much attention. He had wanted the arrival to be low key, but that of course was not to be.

Later, Mrs. Sengupta led the boy to his room, the spare one next to the dining hall. It was a tiny room, with a high skylight, and space enough for a bed, a straight-backed chair and a narrow, wooden cupboard. The boy had arrived with very few luggages, just a tin case and a slim brown rexine bag. Both were pushed under the bed, for Mrs. Sengupta disliked a room to be unduly cluttered with things. And then she showed him into the bathroom.

Clean yourself properly, son, she said, trying to sound as normal as she could. He was pale, pitifully thin, the bald pate framing a sweet, harmonious face. Only the lips were not smiling, and the eyes were remote as though they were looking through a window at something distant. She pointed to the bucket filled with clean, glimmering water and a tiny cake of soap and repeated her instructions. She wondered whether the boy could understand her dialect. At last he nodded dutifully, and as she kept an anxious eye on the closed door, she heard the sound of water running down the drain.

For Mira the events of the past few weeks had been peculiar indeed. As she and her brother Abhishek hung out from the upstairs verandah and watched the entire scene with open mouth, it was almost as though they were expecting something like this to happen. Drat, said Abhishek, this is going to upset mom. You know how much she likes everything to be under control.

He’s cute, Mira giggled.

Cute? What! He’ll have to do something about growing his hair. He can’t meet my friends with that ridiculous ponytail! It would be so embarrassing.

Do you think it is some sort of rule at the ashram? Mira asked.

Heaven knows, Abhishek retorted, and not interested either. Loony growing up in a place like that.

Don’t you think you should be rushing down to help? Mira inquired anxiously.

And add to the chaos? No, thank you! Enough people to help. I prefer watching things from a distance. It gives a perspective you know.

Mira watched. The boy was lying flat on the road, his head upturned, as though he was granted the vantage point from where he could see the entire neighbourhood ogling at him. For a split second her eyes locked on to his. There was amazement in them, but just about that. Even from this distance she could see the dark orbs brimming with unshed tears. But as she was to discover in the months to follow, the boy rarely cried; just as he rarely laughed.

Mira, come here darling, her mother called, show him around the house.

Mira grabbed the boy’s hand and took him upstairs. What is your name? she whispered on the staircase landing. When the boy did not answer, she repeated the question with a gentle insistence. She came to a halt mid-way Somehow it seemed important to pass this first barrier of communication before she could show him her room.

Initially she had been reluctant to allow this stranger into their lives, but there was nothing unusual about the situation. It was part and parcel of her life, the way she had been brought up. She understood with almost a disapproving clarity why her father’s profession involved strange experiments of this kind. When her mother had explained the situation to them, brother and sister had accepted, though not without some argument from his side and tears from her. After the two children had returned to their room, Mrs. Sengupta sighed with relief. It had not been easy providing an explanation. But she was a kind woman, and having taken an oath as a doctor almost twenty years back, she believed in service to the needy. But there was a curious tremble in her heart, as though deep inside she was afraid.

Do you understand Bengali? Mira tried again. She shifted to Hindi. What is your name? A flicker of understanding brightened his face. Avinash, he answered, in a soft musical tone, like the chime of temple bells.

Wow! she cried out, laughing spontaneously, Do you know what it means?

Yes, he answered, his brows deepening, It means The Indestructible One.

Mira could feel the hysteria rising from the pit of her stomach. Boy, she chortled, you are a scream! I don’t care what Abhi says, I think we are going to have a lot of fun having you around.

She moved upstairs and throwing open the bedroom door, she said with a great deal of flourish, Our room! On seeing the boy lingering at the door she pulled him in impatiently. She had this unreasonable urge to boast, to open out her cupboards full of books, toys and clothes and display them all before this boy’s hungry eyes. There was something so incongruous about his presence here, like Aladdin in a cave full of treasures. But the boy stared at everything with no desire. It was a part of him that Mira would grow to cherish, but today she felt dimly disappointed.

Do you like it here? she asked, pausing a little as though she was hesitant to hear his answer. Avinash went slowly to the window. He nodded yes, but it was visible to no one.

Mrs. Sengupta brewed two cups of hot coffee and went down to her husband’s chamber. This had become a kind of routine that she did not want to change. She knew she would find him at his desk, poring over some case or the other. He was a quiet, introspective man, given to long hours of reading the latest medical journals. In the daytime he was a consultant at one of the leading hospitals in the city, and in the evening he saw his patients at home. There was always a long line of them, sitting on the wooden bench in the portico outside the room. Ever since his practice had picked up momentum, he had hired a young man who helped him with the nitty-gritty of running the place. The man, his personal assistant, sat on a small chair at a table provided for him, and ushered in the patients. The chamber had been cordoned off from the rest of the house by a low wall and a separate gate, through which the patients could come in without disturbing anyone. A board announced, Dr. S. Sengupta, M.B.B.S., M.D. Psychiatry. The children’s bedroom upstairs overlooked the small gate, and Mira’s favourite past time was to check on the people who walked in. I can tell how ill they are from the way they walk, she said to her brother.

Rubbish, he retorted, their illness is in their head and not in their bodies. It was a statement that brought a solemn look to Mira’s face, as though she was confronted with a truth that was somehow inevitable and frightening. Abhishek did not want to become a doctor and follow in the footsteps of his parents. He wanted to be a physicist instead. I like dabbling in matter. The human mind and body is too narrow a sphere of study. I want to grapple with the fundamentals of things, he said to his sister.

Mira had wanted to be a nurse ever since she had read about Florence Nightingale. On the nights that the electricity went off, she carried a candle into her room and imagined herself walking down a long, white corridor, wearing a white uniform. Like her mother, she felt a strange bonding with Avinash, as though he needed her to tend and care for him. She kept a close eye on him, and protected him from the curious onlooker.

Mrs. Sengupta set the coffee on the table. She looked exhausted, but it was the kind of tiredness one acquires at the end of a long, meaningful day. Ever since the boy had arrived her days acquired a new kind of preoccupation. There was a strange quietness in the night air, and the only sound that could be heard was the constant whirring of the fan. Her routine was very different from her husband’s. As a paediatrician she visited a nearby primary health clinic run by the Delhi Municipality for a few fixed hours in the morning. She was back home by noon to oversee her family. This kind of job suited her better, and she never thought of changing it for something more profitable. When Mira returned home from school she always found her mother there, ready to fuss over her, and hear her recount the day’s happening in school.

Today her husband noticed the creases of worry on her forehead. She flopped into the cane chair (my chair she called it) with a sigh. I am tired! she muttered.

She had an expressive, mobile face, across which flittered a myriad of moods, like the quick, shifting sun falling on the landscape. Her eyes would frown, hesitate, smile and brood, all in rapid sequence, and accordingly her hands would rotate in tiny movements with the grace of a dancer. She was slim and agile, and yet not restless. There was something gentle about her face that merged well with the energy she exuded. As she sat down, she frowned, a trifle angrily.

Dr. Sengupta noticed this and said warily, Do not worry yourself too much, Vandana. His upbringing at the ashram was good.

She gave him a sharp look. I am hardly worrying about that, she said vehemently, but you know how people talk. Mrs. Chopra actually had the audacity to ask me whether the boy’s background matched our own. You have to think of its influence on the children, she said. Imagine!

Dr. Sengupta laughed. Are you surprised? he asked jocularly. You saw the way she searched for a bride for her son. How many horoscopes went down the drain, how many ill-starred matches were pushed aside? Did you expect anything better from her?

Well, she talks too much and I don’t like the way she sidles up to Abhi. The boy is growing up, you know, Sameer.

That’s absurd, Sameer retorted, nobody can influence children that easily. They have firm minds of their own, specially our two.

Yes, thought Vandana, but she did not feel optimistic. And would you believe it, she said, raising her eyebrows, Mrs. Menon actually seemed to think that falling off a rickshaw was an ill omen. She kept saying we should have brought him on an auspicious day.

Sameer’s face turned serious. Really, Vandana, I don’t think you should worry about such trivialities. The entire arrangement is temporary. You understand that, don’t you? Six months at best. The boy has been through a great deal in the last few months. Besides, he needs acclimatization to life outside the ashram. Then we will discuss with Abha about what our next step should be. Abha said she will come down to Delhi and discuss matters with us.

Vandana sipped the coffee silently. I hope we are doing right for him, she thought fearfully. But it was an idea that she kept to herself. Only her fingers moved to her forehead and she brushed back the few strands of hair. In the halflight of the room her face looked secretive and sad.

Sameer closed his books and retired to bed earlier than usual. He slept fitfully through the night.

Abhishek was used to studying through the wee hours of the night. Their room was L-shaped, so that his study corner was secluded and he could keep the night-lamp lit without disturbing Mira. Once in a while he would turn to see her curled up in bed, a pillow held firmly in the crook of her legs. Her face was always serene, as though she had happy dreams. A streetlight nestled close to the large window next to her bed. Some of the light filtered into the room and fell in a trajectory close to her mouth and chest; he could see the undulating movement of her breath. Then, almost with a sense of shock, he noticed the moon, large and bright and brilliant.

He returned to his book, and absorbed himself in his reading. Scientific facts fascinated him. Science unravels and clarifies the mysteries of life, he thought with a sense of thrill. When he turned again to look at the sleeping face of his sister he saw that the play of light had shifted – now her face was luminous, moon-like and delicate.

He was in the final year of school and, though he had heard fearsome accounts of board exams, he suffered little of the anxiety. He studied steadily, taking in facts with a kind of easy penetration. He had a steady hand so that his diagrams were adjudged the best in his class. Well, he has the calibre to join one of the IIT’s, his teacher said to his parents. Abhishek felt the security of one who knew his future.

But for the past few days a strange sense of displacement bothered him. It was as though each member of his family was coping with a new experience. What was it about Avinash that disturbed him? Was it the touch of the unfamiliar, or was it an identity that did not quite fit in? Abhishek felt a strange urge to verify. He switched off the table lamp and tip-toed downstairs to the room where the boy was sleeping.

The large drawing-cum-dining room seemed strangely unfamiliar. The door leading into the tiny room next to it was ajar, a pair of brand new curtains hanging across. The room was occupied, and despite himself Abhishek felt a shiver run down his spine. They had guests every year around puja, but this room was never used. It had the air of a place distant from the rest of the living space, as though it could only be brought into use in very special circumstances. To Abhishek, Avinash was an oddity, creating strange ripples and disturbing the even pace of their lives. He felt the embarrassment of having to explain to his friends who Avinash was and why he had come to live with them. Imagine, mom, he has never gone to school in this day and age, he’d said with incredulity, what do we do now? Let him continue with his illiteracy?

Well, he is not exactly illiterate, his father had intervened. He was taught by several masters at the ashram. What he lacks is formal education. He is well-versed in the religious books.

Pah! Mighty good that will do him! Abhishek cried out, irritated at his father’s undue support of the boy. Mira shuffled her feet, uneasy at the intensity of the exchange. They were at the dining table, and somehow she felt that Avinash should not be discussed so openly in his presence. Nothing seemed to suggest that the boy was following the tenor of the conversation, but Mira could feel her ears burning. She gulped down her food, and asked her mother permission to take him upstairs to her room. Avinash followed her dutifully, just as he had polished off his plate mechanically without any indication that he had enjoyed the dinner. He ate without hunger, and he followed the girl without intention or will.

The argument had continued for a length of time after Avinash had let the table, but Mira had shut the door firmly so that the voices did not float upstairs.

Abhishek found himself now, standing in the same dining hall, and in the silence of the night his earlier loud protests seemed strangely out of place, as though in the larger scheme of things they did not really matter.

He pushed aside the curtain and stood at the doorway, uncertain of what he expected to see. He could see nothing, the room was so dark. A dank, musty smell of unlived quarters hit his nose. The room was oppressively small and airless, and the difference made him stagger a bit and move back. There was a skylight through which the moonbeams slid in, but they were suspended in mid-air as though they could not penetrate the darkness beneath. The opaque, crusty glass pane covering the skylight hid the moon from sight. Was the boy sleeping? There was no way of knowing, as though sleep and oblivion had merged, becoming one continuous activity.

Abhishek rushed upstairs, panting slightly. Mira was awake, sitting up on her bed. Abhi, she said, can I go downstairs and check out on Avinash? Do you think he is frightened of sleeping in a new place?

Go back to sleep! Abhishek cried harshly. He did not return to his studies. Outside the window the moon glimmered and glowed, swamping the room in its ghostly light.

Avinash was back in Varanasi, in the ashram from where he had come. He was drowning in a large pool. The water was dragging him in and, though he was struggling very hard, the swirling darkness was pushing him from all sides. It was an unequal battle for survival, and however hard he tried he was unable to cry out for help. He closed his eyes and tried to repeat the prayer they had been taught at the ashram. It was a slow chant, said with a kind of intense piety. The words had never meant much to him; he repeated them out of obedience. Now, sucked under water, they eluded him. He felt helpless, very helpless.

The water was dark and thick, stagnant with the growing hyacinths. Where did the strong undercurrents come from? He moved down, down until he hit the bottom. It was a gravelly waterbed, the sand loose and moist, curled around his toes. He felt comfortable, ready to die. He allowed himself to be drowned.

They had saved him, this house full of strangers. They had cleaned his body, given him fresh clothes and food to eat. Just before he had gone to sleep the lady had stood over his bed and said in a kind voice, Drink your milk, Avinash. These are some of the rules of this house. Remember them. Her hand had reached out to touch his forehead with the light touch of someone imparting a blessing. He had drunk the milk, allowing its lukewarm taste to swirl against his palate.

He remembered the river then, its banks so wide that from the end where you stood only the twinkling lights were visible. This river, the Ganges, had its source in the high mountain ranges, and as it meandered down it carried the rich alluvial soil to the sea. His early morning prayers were tied up with the river. But the touch of the icy cold water never ceased to shock his skin and make him recoil. His prayers got frozen on his tiny lips.

Later, he sat at the tea stall sipping a small earthen cup of hot, delicious milk. It was fragrant with slices of green cardamom seeds, and large sugar granules that crunched in his mouth long after he had drunk the last sip. A young woman was with him, keeping a sharp eye. She drank tea in little sips. Her eyes wandered across the river now and then. Her body was wet, the river water running in little rivulets down her back from the nape of her neck. She wore a white sari with blue border that clung to her body. It would dry in the course of the day as the sun moved overhead. In this Holy City, Varanasi, men and women carry the river in their bodies until the day they die. And when they are burnt on the ghats adjacent to the river, their bodies merge with the rich soil. It is a continuous circle, without break, ceaseless like the flow of the river.

When you enter the river you must remain on the surface, floating forever, the woman was telling Avinash.

Avinash looked at the dark still surface of the water. He felt the swirling currents sweep over him. He closed his eyes, ready to drown.

Mira waited for Abhishek to go off to sleep. Then, very quietly so that she would disturb no one, she went down to Avinash’s room.

Listen, she whispered, don’t get frightened. It’s me.

Avinash was not sleeping on the bed. He had shifted to the floor. Mira noticed that he had taken neither the sheet nor the pillow. He was lying on the cool, mosaic floor, his eyes wide open. He looked a little scared, as though the recent happenings had been quite overwhelming for him.

You are awake, Mira said kindly. She squatted on the floor next to him. Aren’t you surprised to see me? she asked. Sometimes she found the boy’s lack of response exasperating, at other times it amused her no end. In the dead of night there was something exciting about finding herself alone in a room with the boy. This boy is going to change our lives, she thought, and somehow, despite herself, she felt glad.

The floor was bare and hard and cold. It was so different from her room, strewn around with thick carpets. She could get the faint smell of phenyl with which Shantabai swept the floor, and she felt the strange urge to lie down next to the boy. She prodded him instead and said, Come, I will take you to the terrace.

On the way, she stopped at the kitchen. Are you hungry? she whispered. Then entering the larder she took out some pickle and led the boy up the stairs.

The terrace was flooded with moonlight. They sucked the peels of mango, the boy grimacing as the tangy taste hit his tongue. I love mango pickle, don’t you? Mira asked.

Yes, the boy answered, my mother used to make pickle and keep it in big glass jars.

Your mother? Where is she?

I don’t know, Avinash replied, she got lost.

Lost? Mira asked incredulously. Where?

In the river. He did not say anything further, and the trail of conversation was lost. They ate the pickle silently.

At last Mira broke the silence. See! See the moon. It looks like your bald pate. She began to laugh uncontrollably until the tears ran down her face. He watched her silently, a solemn look in his eyes, his pickle-stained mouth quivering like a red, angry gash.

CHAPTER TWO

The River

Ramakant, Dr. Sengupta’s Man Friday, was pottering around in the chamber, arranging the files in some sort of order. He eyed one closely. It was a nondescript brown file with number 24 scrawled on top in the doctor’s own handwriting. Ramakant recognised the file; it belonged to Uma.

Ramakant sensed that the doctor was deeply involved in Uma’s case. There was something unplumbed and uncharted about the file, just like the mind of the patient that Dr. Sengupta was treating. Ramakant straightened the desk calendar, and checked whether the flowers arranged in the vase were fresh. It was not part of his duty, but he liked doing these odd jobs. It gave him a sense of belonging.

He had entered this job almost five years back. He was then a fresh science graduate without much ambition. He needed a footing somewhere, and when the doctor advertised for an assistant, he applied. He liked the man who was employing him. In his mid-forties, Sameer had the dignified bearing of a man who listened carefully to the needs of his patients. He spoke in a quiet tone, peppered with the sort of muted humour that made you smile rather than laugh out loud. He never raised his voice, or allowed anything more than a sparkle to lighten up his eyes. Five years later he had greyed gently around the temples, but the face was mild and young still. Ramakant had not once contemplated changing his job. When he got married the doctor raised his pay packet without asking. Sometimes, Ramakant’s wife did grumble about the job being too menial, but he shushed her up without so much as giving a second thought to her arguments.

He heard the bell ring, the